All
my original material is protected by creator's copyright, according to
this footnote:

"Copyright protection subsists . . . in original works of authorship fixed
in any tangible medium of expression, now known or later developed, from
which they can be perceived, reproduced, or otherwise communicated, either
directly or with the aid of a machine or device." 17 U.S.C. 102(a).

"A work is "fixed" in a tangible medium of expression when its embodiment
in a copy or phonorecord, by or under the authority of the author, is sufficiently
permanent or stable to permit it to be perceived, reproduced, or otherwise
communicated for a period of more than transitory duration." 17 U.S.C.
101.

SESTINA SENSES AND NONSENSE
by Robert R. Cobb

One finds comfort and solace in the printed words,
the remembering of pleasurable warm smells,
voices that speak quietly with reassuring sounds,
hushing and calming desires with soft gentle touches
that bring to mind the tenderest thoughts
of a first love's kiss upon lips' sweet wine tastes.

The seasons, each in turn, yield up their own unique smells
that blend with the weather in all varied sounds,
from winter's chill howl, to summer's tanned touches,
North to South post cards, exchanging cold for warm thoughts,
while fantasizing travel plans, rendezvous for lover's tastes,
where love strangers awkwardly embrace with endearing words.

There are many ways to communicate love's sounds,
but none can surpass a sensuous smile, body language, knowing touches
that convey through heart-felt gestures, deep, yearning thoughts.
The champagne, shortcakes, fresh berries and whipped cream tastes,
and napkined love notes, hastily scrawled penciled words,
making love while skinny dipping to the scent of chlorine smells.

The "missing you" messages that sigh for unfelt touches,
through clandestine E-mail postings seeking cyber thoughts,
channeling kinetic energies to transform pathways to tastes,
never using obscenities, offensive language words,
that could permeate the air waves like foul dangerous smells,
only dulcet tones that are found in love song sounds.

I have been there,
to the "middle of nowhere",
a gas station/restaurant.
It does exist, "nowhere", that is!

On U.S., Route 50, fifty miles
from Anyplace Else, (Ely), Nevada.
Stopped in one fine summer day,
not a cloud in sight, no hint of rain.

Needing gas, bladder relief too,
stepped inside to seek a restroom,
when, at that instant, I heard
a thunderous BOOM!!

"Was that thunder?" I asked
to no one, nowhere. A patron replied,
"I think that was your car!" I gave him
a blank stare.

Looked out the window,
as steam clouds billowed,
from radiator hose exploded!
Family in wagon, trailer in tow,

Hood in the air, all stunned
by the blow! Nowhere, no go!
"Not a garage, only a trailer, out back",
said a feller who wore a "Middle of Nowhere" cap.

"Wait for the state police to give you a ride",
was the suggestion given from the capped man inside.
"We have no tow truck, just Mom's disabled Jeep",
he added, "I'm sure that she is no longer asleep."

"Perhaps a hose from her Jeep will fit your Ford",
he knocked on the trailer door to get her word.
Ten dollars later, used Jeep hose transplanted,
we're on the road to anyplace else on the planet!

Arriving in Ely, to the one garage in town,
just as the Ford decided to reject its transplanted item.
Another thunder BOOMER, another cloud of steam!
Fortunately, proper repairs could here be found.

"The Middle of Nowhere"< now only a dream,
several hours later we camped near a babbling stream.
Other incidents, less Ford traumatic, happened in
another state of panic, Wyoming, but, that's another poem!

of all wing-ed things
that have metamorphosized
from larvae cocoons
fine, metaphorically
speaking of, houseflies,
horseflies, dragonflies, and many
butterflies, other flutter-byes,
I think that the moth
still has the prettiest wings.

What goes around comes around,
no matter how you slice it,
or portion out its measure.
Take a little bit of Heaven
while you can, be it art or poetry,
they both to life bring pleasure.

Wonder no more, wander any highway,
there is beauty to be found,
along side each and every byway.
Observe quietly, listen to the sounds,
forming words of wisdom, truth abounds,
waiting for the seeker, poet, artist, child,

To come, to find, to ferret out the treasures
in surplus, enough to go around for every man's
childish pleasures. Artistry, poetically,
all the words are there to describe the beauty
of the world's uncovered secrets,
and to make them visible treats for all minds to store.

Please awaken to hear your own shadows
And know they tell truth without illusions.
They have experienced painful renderings
Before, and have the wisdom of contrasts,
If not of wise decisions. They suffer de-visions,
Splitting you apart from earlier reflections.

Quick, vignetted, gestural renderings,
Real, but unreal, seen, but unseen, contrasts!
"This is me!" stranger with un-faced illusions,
Angry at suggestions of past reflections
That we recognize from hospital shadows,
And in places we no longer care to see in visions.

BY ROBERT R. COBB, 12/27/97

ENVOY: Unseen voices, heard remarks from unknown sources, spoken
to the air voices that linger in mind shadows. Visions of reflections,
hard to recognize contrasts from one we have loved from the start.Illusions, we try to tell ourselves, that we no longer care to remember.
Renderings that we wish gone.

April, a critical time of the year. Winter's breathe lingers on.
Snow, dead flowers, and pot-holes. Road repairs in full-bloom.
Heaven's gate was more than enough to make my head spin.
I can live with a few dead flowers. Finding my way to work is
always an
April challenge. Spring break has come and gone, teaching, only
to be taught again.
Challenges and risks, who dares to make and take them? Every
month has its fools.
But, thanks to God and the IRS, April seems to garner more and more
fools every year!
And yet, after many trials, I am back. No longer searching cyber-space
for
the blue denizens.
Not quite on the level of true salvation, but definitely cathartic.
Will Spring ever arrive?
Right now, I'll just try to ride out the rest of April, and hope for
an
early Summer, more poetry tobe penned, paintings to be painted, and
life to be lived.